


vic's vaporub

by allapplesfall



Category: Station 19 (TV)
Genre: Fainting, Fever, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Nebulously Post-Season 3, Sickfic, Team as Family, Vic Hughes Needs a Hug, even as it reminds you of those you don't have anymore, sickfic more like sickvic am i right...., sometimes getting sick reminds you you've got lots of people in your corner!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:01:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27194147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allapplesfall/pseuds/allapplesfall
Summary: Vic's sick for the first time since Ripley died and Travis justhasto be visiting his mom.
Relationships: Andy Herrera & Victoria Hughes, Maya Bishop & Victoria Hughes, Victoria Hughes & Travis Montgomery, Victoria Hughes/Lucas Ripley (past)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 37





	vic's vaporub

**Author's Note:**

> ok my only excuse for still being here is that I love my girls so fucking much. formal apologies to my college professors whose assignments I procrastinated on by writing this lmaoo
> 
> sidenote: I glossed emojis like they're read by a screenreader! yes tech companies are really weird and call peace signs "victory hands." also...I'd say I'm sorry for the title but I'm really not ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> tw: mild respiratory illness, grief and loss

> _**Vic** _
> 
> _Travis_
> 
> _I hate u_

“Vic!” someone calls. “Dinner’s ready!”

“Coming!” she calls back. She winces when it turns into a deep, hacking cough.

> _**Travis Mont-dumb-ery** _
> 
> _???_
> 
> _What did I do_

> _**Vic** _
> 
> _You had to decide to go make nice w ur mom_
> 
> _Right when I need u_

> _**Travis Mont-dumb-ery** _
> 
> _Lmao what’s wrong_

> _**Vic** _
> 
> _I think I’m sick :((_

> _**Travis Mont-dumb-ery** _
> 
> _:(_
> 
> _Gross I’m sorry_
> 
> _Anything I can do?_

> _**Vic**_
> 
> _Say ‘screw u Nari' and come back?_
> 
> _Ok ok no_
> 
> _Can’t a girl just whine to her AWOL best friend_

> _**Travis Mont-dumb-ery**_
> 
> _You don’t seem to need my permission_
> 
> _And hey I took leave_
> 
> _I’m just A_

> _**Vic** _
> 
> _Fucking A_

> _**Travis Mont-dumb-ery** _
> 
> _Travis disliked “Fucking A”_
> 
> _Okay I’m going to go spend time with my mom now_
> 
> _She appreciates me_
> 
> _Feel better soon <3_

> _**Vic** _
> 
> _Vic loved “Feel better soon <3”_

“Vic!” someone calls again. Andy, judging by that uptight key.

“Coming, Jesus,” Vic grumbles. She pushes herself up out of her bed, blinking back spots of dizziness, and stumbles out of her bunk into the glaring white lights of the locker room. She’s not exactly hungry, but if she says she feels too sick to eat, she’ll get sent home, and being home alone is kind of the last thing she wants right now.

She walks into the beanery to find everyone else already sitting down around the table. Two big pots of pasta sit on trivets down the center, a few side dishes interspersed between them. The team glances up at her approach.

“You look like crap,” Maya says, with her usual bluntness.

“Yeah, you do not look good,” agrees Andy. She passes the serving spoon to Gibson.

“Thanks. Thanks, guys.” Of the two empty seats, Vic takes the one not next to Dean. “You always know how to boost a girl’s ego.”

“Seriously,” Warren says. “Are you okay?”

Vic shrugs. “Yeah.”

“You don’t sound okay,” Dean says.

She pointedly doesn’t look at him. If he wanted to weigh in on how okay she does or doesn’t sound, he shouldn’t have kicked her out. “What’s for dinner?”

“Pasta,” says Gibson, proud. “My bolognese. Garlic bread, too. And vegetables, I guess.”

“I made those,” Andy explains. “He didn’t want to.”

“Sweet.”

Warren ladles Vic out a serving and passes it to her.

“Thanks.”

As she takes her first couple bites, the conversation she interrupted sputters back to life. Tuck’s team apparently won their basketball tournament over the weekend. Gibson wants to know if maybe they should host a basketball clinic for their next community event, get the neighborhood kids involved. Andy and Warren think it’s a fun idea—maybe Tuck can ask his friends or their younger siblings or something. The conversation meanders to something else, then another thing, then another thing.

Vic wants to ask who turned on the AC, because it is _cold_ in here. The Bolognese tastes metallic and sour in her mouth. She gives up after a few more bites.

She catches Maya watching her closely from across the table. She forces a smile, hoping to at the very least make her feel guilty for staring, but that only makes Maya’s eyes narrow.

Stupid Maya and her stupid shameless observation skills.

Tuning back into the conversation—a lively debate on which movie people feel like watching on the next shift—Vic puts in an effort to contribute. She says, “That’s dumb,” to Dean’s suggestion, and “Hang on, we watched that two years ago,” to Warren’s. When they counter, she pushes back for a few lines of croaky banter, and then lets Andy take over with her very opinionated points of view.

By the fifteen-minute mark, her head has started pounding something fierce. It takes everything in her to keep from shivering—seriously, why is nobody else feeling how fucking cold it is in here?

The back of her throat starts to tickle. After a few moments of trying to swallow it back, eyes watering, she brings up her arm and coughs long and deep into her elbow. She fights to breathe normally. Her chest aches.

When she straightens again, the whole table has stopped talking to look at her.

“That did not sound good,” Warren says. Before she can stop him—stupid Warren and his stupid surgeon ninja training reflexes—he reaches out and presses his hand to her forehead. “Yeah, that’s a fever.”

She bats his hand away. “Hey, no. No. You don’t know that. It’s just warm in here.”

“You have goosebumps,” Maya points out.

Vic glares at her, betrayed.

“Vic, go home,” says Andy.

“Right. Because, you know, that went so well last time.”

Everyone pauses, remembering the pouring rain and the squalling of a newborn baby.

“I had a fever that day, too. Seriously, if I could handle that, I can definitely handle twelve more hours of normal shift.”

“Hughes, you’re sick,” Gibson says.

Thanks, Captain Underpants.

Underpants? No—Captain _Obvious_. Shit, okay, she might be feeling the fever a little. Only a little, though.

“At least let me stay here if you guys get called out. Come on, don’t make me go home.” She turns to Maya, trying to both show and not show how utterly she means it. “Please.”

Maya gives her a long, considering look. “Fine,” she decides. “I’ll see if anyone from B shift wants to come in and make some extra money. But you go to bed, now.”

The part of Vic that gets churlish and difficult when she’s sick wants to argue _._ _You’re not the boss of me_. Except Maya is, actually, the boss of her, and if she argues she might be forced to pack up and head out. Better to take the wins where she can get them.

Cheeks flushing at getting sent to her room like a small child—something that not even her parents ever did to her, not that they were around to mete out much discipline—Vic pushes back her seat. “Fine,” she grumbles.

She sways as she gets up. Warren and Dean both reach out to steady her, though Dean is too far away for his hand to do more than hang in the air.

“Whoa,” says Warren. “How about I walk you back?”

“No, I’m–I’m fine,” she says, brushing off his grip. “It’s fine. Finish your food.”

“I’ll walk with you,” Andy says smoothly, getting to her feet. “I’m done eating.”

“You don’t have to–”

“Don’t even try it.” She fixes her with the expression that used to cow even Pruitt into compliance. “Let’s go.”

Defeated, Vic follows Andy out of the beanery.

“Thanks,” she offers, somewhere in the hallways. It seems like the kind of thing to say.

“Of course. How long haven’t you been feeling good?”

Vic tries to think back. “This morning, maybe? But I didn’t sleep great last night, so I figured it was just that.”

“And the coughing and the fever….”

Vic shakes her head, regretting it as it makes her brain swish around in her skull. “I don’t know, okay?”

“Okay.”

They reach Vic’s bunk.

“Your water bottle full?” Andy asks.

Vic nods.

“Good. You get changed, and I’ll go grab a thermometer and some Advil for the fever, yeah?”

“Andy, you seriously don’t have–”

“Hughes. Vic.” Andy puts a hand on her arm. “I know I don’t have to. I want to, got it?”

Vic blinks a few times. Fever must be making her eyes all watery. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks.”

While Andy goes to track down some NSAIDs, Vic feels around in her bag for her pyjamas. She strips off her clothes. She tries to go quickly, but her hands shake with chills and it takes a couple attempts to step properly into the cotton pants. As soon as she can, she climbs into bed.

Fuck, she feels _rough_.

“Hey,” Andy says, after a minute or two. Her voice is disconcertingly close. “Thermometer.”

Vic rolls over, finding Andy beside her bunk, limned by the light from the door. She accepts the thermometer and pops it under her tongue. A few long seconds pass before it beeps.

Andy takes it back and squints at the small glowing screen. “102.3,” she reports. “I’m glad you didn’t go home. I mean, you shouldn’t be driving like this.”

“Mm,” Vic mumbles. She’s _cold_ and her head hurts and her chest feels weird and tight and clogged.

“Sit up. You need to take some Advil and drink some water.”

“You’re bossy, Herrera.”

“Damn straight. Now sit up. Sooner you do, sooner you can go back to bed.”

With what feels like a Herculean effort, Vic pushes herself to a sitting position. She accepts the small pills into one hand and her water bottle, helpfully uncapped, in the other. She swallows the meds and takes a few extra sips for good measure.

“A couple more,” says Andy. Her voice is stern but not unconcerned—Vic can see some worry gathered in the tense line of her jaw.

Vic drinks obediently, even though she’d rather not.

“Good.” Andy takes back the bottle. “And I brought _the_ thing for that cough. My dad claimed it could fix everything.” She pulls a white tube out of her pocket.

“Oh, bless you,” Vic says, holding out a hand. Andy squeezes out a dollop of the cream onto her palm and Vic reaches below the neckline of her shirt to rub it on her chest. The sharp smell is familiar, comforting, but the chill of it against her skin makes her shiver.

Andy gives a sympathetic grimace. “Being sick sucks. Is there something else I can do? Do you…do you want your headscarf, or anything?”

Vic shakes her head.

“Okay. Try to sleep, alright? Someone’ll be in to check on you before we go to bed.”

Vic has a sudden childish urge to ask her to stay. She misses her grandma’s soft, comforting touches and the cold compresses she used to rest against her forehead, the warm honey and lemon tea she would make her drink and the blanket nests she would set up on the couch. She wants someone to sit next to her and let her curl up into their side and—

She swallows, feeling the sharp sting of her throat.

“Thanks,” she croaks.

“’Course. Sleep well.”

-

Vic wakes up and it takes a full forty-five seconds to remember that Ripley hasn’t just stepped out to get her some Gatorade.

She dreamt about him, kind of. Either that, or her fevered brain smelted down reality and memory and swirled it together until she couldn’t tell the two apart through the haze of sleep. She could’ve sworn he’d been next to her, chest warm and solid beneath one of his countless sweaters. He’d chuckled and promised to make soup and had teased her about her congested snores. He’d been _himself_ and he’d been _there_.

Now all she has is an empty half of a freezing bed. A wet cough racks its way up her insides, hurting her head and leaving her blinking back spots. She curls up in its wake, unable to swallow tears. A sob seizes in her chest. She hasn’t even fully woken up by the time she’s crying: muffled, pained, phlegmy crying. She balls the sheets in her fist and pull them close to her face.

She misses him. She misses him so fucking bad.

Last time she was sick, he’d brought her tea, just like her grandma used to. He’d climbed into bed with her, still in his starchy fire-chief button-down, and held her against him. She’d been able to hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the smooth inhales and exhales of his breaths. He’d kissed her forehead. He’d told her he loved her, and she’d said it back.

This is why she hadn’t wanted to go home. Being alone, so fucking alone, makes everything so real. He won’t come back. Lucas will never come back. Vic’s going to spend the rest of her life without him—getting sick without him, celebrating wins without him, mourning losses without him. The weight of it presses on her sternum so hard she thinks it might cave in.

He’s not coming back. Not ever.

It’s not _fair_.

God.

She wants Travis. She wants Jackson. She wants her grandma. She wants parents who do more than scarf down gołąbki and exchange small talk if she comes in during the mid-afternoon lull, because she doesn't want to rely so much on _this_ —on friends and lovers who have known her for a maximum of four years and run into burning buildings for a living, who can kick her out because it confuses their baby and dump her because her heart's a mess and die in hospital beds with their lips still warm from her kiss. She wants someone to hold her. To lie to her, to tell her it will all be okay, even when it won’t. She feels so fucking awful and she can’t breathe through the tears and she just wants everything to _stop_.

She cries for what seems like hours.

Eventually, the tears slow. The hoarse gasping tapers off. She wipes her cheeks on the corner of her soaked pillowcase. Briefly, she remembers the pad of his thumb, rubbing a tear away from under her eye, and another round of sobs starts up, but after a couple minutes they fade, too. She stares up at the dark ceiling panels, drained and sore. A grainy headache pounds behind her eyes.

She rolls her head to the side, peering at the darkened nightstand. Someone _did_ leave a bottle of Gatorade there—she has a vague memory of Warren coming in, taking her temperature and promising to be back soon. Did her mind twist him into Ripley? She wrinkles her nose. Gross.

Carefully, she pushes herself up onto her elbow and reaches out to grab the bottle. She uncaps it, lifts it to her lips, and sips. Red. She doesn’t like the red flavor as much as lemon-lime, but she supposes sick losers who are such babies they have to be taken care of by their coworkers can’t be picky. After a few gulps, she switches to water. She drinks more than she wants to in an effort to replace what she cried out.

Setting them both on the nightstand again, she lies back down, tired. She presses the back of her arm to her forehead. It stills feel hot, dry. Motivated more by a dispassionate curiosity than concern, she pats around for the thermometer and sticks it under her tongue.

 _101.8_.

She grimaces. Not great. She tends to run low—97.6, 97.8—and she’s on fever-reducers. Can she take more yet? How long has it been?

Her phone still sits where she left it plugged in before dinner. She disconnects it, brings it close to her face.

_11:34. Two new messages._

> _**Travis Mont-dumb-ery** _
> 
> _Hey how are you feeling?_
> 
> _My mom says hi_

She decides to text him back tomorrow. He’s probably already asleep—he likes to go to bed at grandpa hours and wake up early to meditate or cycle or whatever. She doesn’t know what she’d tell him, anyway. Everything she can think of would either worry him or make her sound needy.

In other news, eleven-thirty means it’s been about four hours since she took the Advil, which means she can take a couple more. Hallelujah. She shakes out a few from the bottle Andy left for her and swallows them quickly so they don’t leave a funky aftertaste.

All that done, she rolls over, trying to find the warmer divot she left in the mattress. A cough bubbles up in her chest, harsh and rough. She groans.

Being awake is pretty unbearable right now, but if she sleeps, she risks seeing Ripley again. Is that worth it?

In the end, she doesn’t get much say in the matter. Her eyes slip shut. She sinks.

-

The next time she wakes up, she has to pee.

“Come on,” she grumbles, pushing herself up to sitting. She pauses, waiting for the blood to stop rushing in her ears. Her jaw aches; she didn’t put her mouthguard in before going to sleep. She nabs her phone off the bedside table. _2:16._

She manages to get to her feet without much incident. She doesn’t feel as cold anymore, thank god—maybe the Advil kicked in?—but she reaches into her duffel and pulls out a hoodie just in case. It’s a big scary world out there, after all.

When she emerges from the protective darkness of her bunk, the harsh light of the locker room flies into her eyes like a handful of darts. She lifts her knuckles to shield them, suppressing a groan.

She shuffles down to the hall to the bathroom, hands in her jacket pockets. The station gets eerily quiet at this time of night. All of the normal chatter and movement has been vacuumed up by sleep. She can hear the hum of the overhead lights and the central heating. She makes it to the bathroom, takes a couple steps toward the stalls, and—

She blinks, staring up at the ceiling.

Huh.

It takes her a few moments to process that she’s horizontal, lying flat on her back on the cold tile. She can feel the cracks in the mortar beneath her fingers. Oh. Did she fall?

She really doesn’t feel good.

After a minute or two, she realizes she should probably sit up. She manages to scoot to the nearest wall and props herself against it, leaning her head back as she breathes. Fuck.

She should tell someone, right? That’s the kind of thing you do. You faint like a rich white lady from the 18th century, you let someone know.

She pulls out her phone. At least the screen didn’t crack when she hit the ground. She can only think of one person who might be awake right now, so she shoots off a text before she can overthink it.

> _**Vic** _
> 
> _Hey r u up?_

A minute passes. She bites her bottom lip.

Then three little grey dots pop up on the screen, and she lets out a breath.

> _**Maya** _
> 
> _Yeah, are you okay?_

> **Vic**
> 
> _Uh_
> 
> _I don’t feel good I went to the bathroom and fell down on the floor_

> _**Maya** _
> 
> _Like passed out?_

> _**Vic** _
> 
> _I guess_

> _**Maya** _
> 
> _I’m coming. Don’t move._

A maximum of thirty seconds go by before she can hear Maya’s bare feet pattering lightly against the linoleum. She arrives in the doorway with wide eyes, bobbed hair flat on one side. She has on her crew shirt and shorts.

“Hey,” she says, dropping to her knees beside Vic. “You okay?”

Vic looks at her. “I fell.”

“Yeah.” Maya’s eyes are serious, chin dimpled in concern. She searches Vic’s gaze intently. “Can I…?” She raises a hand.

Vic nods, the slightest inclination of her head.

Maya presses her hand to her forehead. “You still feel warm. Have you taken something for the fever?”

“Yeah, about three hours ago. I’m okay, though, I think.”

“You’re on the floor of the bathroom.”

Vic can’t argue with that.

“What happened?”

“Good question.” Vic takes a raspy breath and coughs into her elbow. “I felt a bit better. I didn’t think having to pee would qualify as a safety hazard. I just walked in here upright one second and then….” She presses her eyes closed. She has no energy for jokes or bravado. “I don’t feel good.”

Maya doesn’t say anything—doesn’t apologize, like Andy would, doesn’t make an educated diagnosis like Warren would, doesn’t comfort like Travis would, doesn’t shift awkwardly like Dean would. She just squeezes Vic’s knee and waits.

“Do you want to get up?” she asks, after it becomes clear Vic’s said all she can.

Vic hesitates. “Maybe a bit longer down here? I don’t wanna fall down again.”

“Sure. I’m gonna go grab a thermometer and a blood pressure cuff, okay? We’ll get you checked out.”

Vic nods, too tired to string together unnecessary words.

“I’ll be right back,” Maya promises. Cotton rustles as she stands and moves away.

Vic stays put, waiting. She’s heard Maya use that tone of voice with victims on dozens of calls over the past couple years, but this is the first time she’s been on the other side of it. It’s not patronizing, just slightly softer than her normal voice, and steady. She gets why people trust it.

She’s debating the benefits of melting into the tiles and beginning her new life as a piece of bathroom flooring when Maya comes back. Vic cracks open her eyes, squinting in the light, and watches her crouch down beside her.

“Here,” Maya says. She lifts the new thermometer up and sticks it in Vic’s ear—never a pleasant feeling—until it beeps. “102.”

“Ugh. It went back up.”

Maya nods, setting down the thermometer and undoing the velcro on the blood pressure cuff. She wraps it around Vic’s upper arm and tightens it just shy of painful. “Low,” she reports. “But not too bad, considering you just passed out.”

“Who does that?” Vic croaks. “Who faints? In real life.”

“Definitely not you.” Maya’s lips crook upwards.

“Is there any chance I can get you to never speak of this again? Name a price.”

“Right now, I just want you drinking some water. How are you feeling?”

Vic takes physical stock of herself. “Not good.”

“Think you can stand up if I help you?”

“Probably.” And then, because she hurtled past the point of embarrassment a good ten minutes ago, she adds, “I still have to pee.”

“Okay. We can walk you over.”

Vic nods.

Together, they count to three, and then Maya helps her to her feet. She slings Vic’s arm over her shoulder and takes careful steps towards the toilets as Vic leans heavily into her side. She lets Vic go into the stall alone, once she grips onto the metal handrail. It takes a while, and not a few moments blinking into space trying to focus, but Vic manages to empty her bladder and pull her pants back up all by her damn self.

Small victories.

She exits to find Maya hovering by the neighboring stall, ready to slip back under her to support her to the sink. Vic accepts the help, though she doesn’t put quite as much weight on her this time. She shakes her off when they reach the counter.

The Vic that stares back at her from the mirror doesn’t look so hot. Deep circles hang beneath her glassy eyes. Crinkles and cracks corrugate her lips. Her hair, left to face the harsh realities of her cotton pillowcase without her silk scarf to protect it, has started to frizz free of its bun. If she looked half this bad earlier, it’s a wonder it took the team till dinner to call her out on it.

She drops her gaze and scrubs her hands clean.

They have to stop a few times on the way back to Vic’s bunk. The first time, Vic gets dizzy and has to grab onto both Maya’s shoulder and the wall until it passes. The second time, she’s just too fucking tired—Maya has to encourage her to stay standing and not just drop down and sleep right there in the hallway.

Finally, though, they do make it. Maya flicks on the light as Vic crawls gratefully back beneath her sheets.

“Sit up,” Maya cajoles. “Vic….”

When Vic manages to, Maya props the pillow up behind her back.

“Water,” she says, handing Vic the bottle. “You’re dehydrated.”

Vic tries to drink as much as she can, but she’s broken off by a round of spluttering coughs. By the time they subside, her chest feels wheezy and creaky.

“That doesn’t sound good. Are you sure you don’t want me to wake Warren? We could even head over to Grey-Sloan, get you checked out.”

Vic shakes her head.

Maya sits on the bed beside her. “I’m not a doctor.”

“It’s fine. Just a cough, or the flu or something.” Vic swallows another sip of water. When Maya’s still looking at her, mouth worried, she sighs. “Look, if I get worse in the morning, I’ll go, alright?”

“Okay.” She takes the water back and swaps it out for the Gatorade.

Vic downs a half a bottle of that, too.

“More vaporub?”

She nods. With slow, clumsy movements, she squirts out the cream and slathers it over her chest. She nearly knocks over the water bottle when she tries to set it back down on the counter, but Maya catches it before it falls.

“What time did you say you took the ibuprofen?”

“Around eleven-thirty, I think.”

“I have some Tylenol in my office, we can alternate with that. Let me go–”

“I have some.” Vic points vaguely in the direction of her cabinet. “In there.”

Maya gets up and grabs it, unscrewing the childproof cap with a practiced twist. She hands Vic the pills and the water bottle. Vic swallows them.

“Thanks,” Vic says. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Sure.” Maya rests a hand on her knee. “Anything else you need?”

“Could you– No, it’s okay. Never mind.”

Vic wishes beyond wishing that Travis hadn’t gone to visit his mom this week, because she wants _him_ for this. He’s her best friend, he’s the one she trusts. She has dragged him out of burning buildings and he’s held her hand in the hospital and helped through every part that came after that. He’s solid and strong and funny and squishy in all the right spots. For all that he’s a baby around germs, he’s _Travis_.

“You sure?” Maya asks.

Maya isn’t Travis. She doesn’t open up to Vic in the same way. Maya bares her teeth in moments when he would show his belly: moments of vulnerability, of sadness, of pain. And she’s already done so much—let Vic crash at her place, pick her up off the bathroom floor, put her to bed like she’s an elementary-schooler.

“Yeah. Yeah.”

But the overwhelming fear of loneliness, the weight of grief, hovers over like a still-frame of a tsunami.

Maya tilts her head. “Hey. Look at me.”

Vic meets her eyes. They’re impossible to hide from. “Could you, uh. Could you stay?”

Maya blinks. “Stay?”

“Forget it, it’s stupid, forget I even–”

But Maya’s already moving, pushing herself over Vic’s legs to sit against the headboard on Vic’s other side. Their shoulders touch. “Yeah,” Maya says. "I can stay."

“You need to sleep, I–”

“I wasn’t sleeping anyway.” And maybe they should talk about that, at some point—the long nights Vic finds Maya awake, eyes staring far away, jaw too tight. “Besides, we get off in the morning. I’ll sleep then.”

“No, it’s okay, seriously. You don’t have to do this.”

“Hey. Is this what you need right now?”

_Is this what you need right now?_

She remembers standing in a dark parking lot, her face tight with heat, watching flames consume the restaurant in front of her. She remembers Maya at her side, quiet and unmoving. She’d stayed then, too.

“I’ll get you sick,” she warns.

“I don’t get sick.”

“Liar.”

Maya rolls her eyes. “ _If_ I get sick, you’ll get a signed letter of gratitude from Carina. She loves to baby me.”

Vic huffs. “Cuz you make it so goddamn hard.”

Maya knocks her side lightly with her elbow.

“Thanks,” Vic says, in a rough voice she can’t entirely blame on the cough. She swallows—she might believe in the cathartic power of tears, but if she cries one more time tonight her head might explode. “Thank you.”

Maya finds her hand and squeezes. “Go to sleep.”

“I mean it.”

A mushier person might have replied to that. Maya just nods. “Sleep.”

So Vic shifts down onto the pillow, back pressed against the warmth of Maya’s leg, and does.

-

> _**Vic** _
> 
> _I lived bitch_
> 
> _[IMG_7036.jpg]_

> _**Travis Mont-dumb-ery** _
> 
> _Why is Warren carrying you???_
> 
> _Are you okay_

> _**Vic** _
> 
> _He’s overprotective_
> 
> _And Andy said it would make a cute picture_
> 
> _So…_
> 
> _[victory hand with medium skin tone]_

> _**Travis Mont-dumb-ery** _
> 
> _It might have if you weren’t sick_
> 
> _You do not look good_

> _**Vic** _
> 
> _[middle finger with medium skin tone]_
> 
> _I think I have the flu_
> 
> _Maya’s driving me home now_

> _**Travis Mont-dumb-ery** _
> 
> _If half the shift is out sick next week I’m blaming you_

> _**Vic** _
> 
> _Damn_
> 
> _Ye of little sympathy_

> _**Travis Mont-dumb-ery** _
> 
> _I mean…_
> 
> _No but seriously, are you okay?_

> _**Vic** _
> 
> _It was a rough night but I’m feeling a bit better_
> 
> _I missed you_
> 
> _Are you free to facetime later?_

> _**Travis Mont-dumb-ery** _
> 
> _Yeah for sure_

> _**Vic** _
> 
> _Best medicine a girl could ask for [two hearts] [two hearts] [two hearts]_

> _**Travis Mont-dumb-ery** _
> 
> _[face vomiting]_
> 
> _Gross_

> _**Vic** _
> 
> _Vic loved “Gross”_
> 
> _Actually it’s [face with thermometer]_
> 
> _Ok we’re at Maya’s_
> 
> _I’m gonna go_
> 
> _I’ll lyk when I wake up from my nap?_

> _**Travis Mont-dumb-ery** _
> 
> _Yeah of course_
> 
> _Love you_

> _**Vic** _
> 
> _…_
> 
> _Love you too, dumbass_

> _**Travis Mont-dumb-ery** _
> 
> _Travis loved “Love you too, dumbass”_

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for sticking with it guys!! funny story, vic comes down with basically what I caught in early march of this year bc ~write what you know~ or whatever, but she doesn't get the joy of scaring the pants off some poor freshman who was just trying to go to the bathroom in peace. to the deer-in-headlights looking girl who hightailed it the moment I promised I was okay (and my wonderful friends who eventually rescued me!) - this is for you <33
> 
> pls let me know what you thought!! n feel free to come yell at me about station 19 on tumblr @appleciders


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